What Remains
by theeskimo1986
Summary: Rated M for hardcore smut rape,u b the judge ,gore,violence,and anything else my sick lil mind comes up with in the future.WARNING! Character DEATH!If you flame,do it under your own name.If not under your name,it will b deleted if offensive to others.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sheva opened her eyes, and watched the ceiling as it seemed to pitch and yawn above her, the glare on the surface of the clear water rippling as she released her breath into the warmth surrounding her. Breaking the surface, she ran her hands over her head, the water sluicing down her bare back, steam rising from her body. She stood slowly, tiny rivers flowing down her flat stomach, across her posterior, twining about her legs. Snagging the towel from the rack, she quickly wrapped herself in it, and stepped lightly out of the porcelain bathtub.

The linoleum below her feet was ice cold, and a chill ran up her spine. Two years living in America, and she still couldn't get used to the weather here; Washington DC was wet and often times frigid. Sheva had been seeing Christopher; on and off, right now it was SO off. A frown formed on her brow, and she felt the anger creep back up to the surface.

Shaking her head to dismiss such thoughts and emotions, she opened the bathroom door, and walked determinedly down the hall towards her room, clutching her towel tightly around herself.

Suddenly, she felt something warm brush against her arm, and before Sheva could turn to see it, her body was being slammed forward harshly. Her face connected with the wood planks of the floor; and she let out a sharp bark of surprise. Biting back the tears that were already forming in her eyes, Sheva fought against the immovable force that was pressed solidly against her body; and shock clouded her brain as she felt hands roughly grab her wrists.

All of her government training couldn't help her; Sheva was hopelessly pinned down by the person on top of her.

"Get off me!" She groaned out forcefully.

Her attacker let out a hissing breath that sent her dangling strands of hair tickling past her ear, and Sheva's blood ran like ice through her veins as the man's free hand stroked along her bare side. All that training in counter-terrorism and combat; useless. Sheva was about to be raped.

"Where is Redfield?"

The voice stopped her heart.

"Wesker?!?!" Sheva barely whispered, fear thick in her voice. Tremors wracked her body, and she felt utterly helpless. Her mind reeled; Wesker was supposed to be dead. She'd fired an RPG at his face.

"I'm flattered! You remember me." Wesker's voice was dry, low and right in her ear. His tongue licked out, tracing the curve of her ear. Sheva tried to throw him off with her body, but still she was unable to budge him. "Where is Redfield?"

"I don't know." Sheva's arms were going numb, still held fast behind her. He grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her roughly to her feet. Yelping, Sheva twisted against his grip, which only made Wesker tighten his hold.

"That is the wrong answer, Miss Alomar." Wesker strode forward, pulling her hair cruelly until Sheva walked behind him, towel forgotten as she beat against his tall form uselessly. She was panicked, fear was clouding her senses; numb, Sheva was tossed onto her bed and quickly covered by Wesker.

Slowly, Wesker reached up and slid the sunglasses off his face. Sheva closed her eyes, just the memory of those wicked orange-red orbs making her shiver. His lips brushed against her forehead, to her cheek, down her neck; light and lingering. The feel of his breath against her slightly damp skin made her quiver with a sick anticipation; causing Sheva's eyes to shoot wide open. She didn't want this; this couldn't be happening. Wesker was dead; gone, disintegrated, annihilated, finished, never-coming-back-because-he-was-dunked-in-an-active-volcano-and-shot-in-the-face-with-two-rocket-propelled-grenades type gone.

"How?" Sheva stammered out, the tears that had threatened earlier again trying to break the surface. She wanted so bad to buck, thrash, kick, claw; anything to get Wesker off her, but Sheva was sure that he'd get off on it. If Wesker was anything, it was a control freak to the end. Nothing was off schedule, nothing unplanned; hell, the guy's blonde hair was flawless, and his nails meticulously cut and cleaned. So what the hell was he doing here?

Wesker laughed, the sound deep in timbre and chilling to her at the same time. "Did you really think it would be so easy to dispatch of me? I am a God! You cannot kill a God!"

"Well, I see we had an impact on your ego, at least." Sheva shot out; odd, the things you find funny at the worst of times. The remark earned her a light slap to her rump, and the gesture so startled her that Sheva let out a little squeak, much like the sound a young girl would make at seeing a mouse run across their feet. That elicited a genuine chuckle from Wesker, who slapped her again before running his hands up her sides. Sheva hissed as his fingers whispered over her flesh, warmth spreading through her body. She blushed as she realized that her back had arched into the caress, and she began fighting against him, no longer caring if she provoked him. His body pressed hers down effortlessly, and Wesker pressed his forehead to hers.

Terror gripped Sheva, and the tears she'd been fighting so hard against finally broke through her tough exterior, leaking from the corners of her eyes in a flood. Wesker kissed them off her cheeks, shushing her mockingly.

"Shh, Sheva, my dear. Don't cry. You can tell me where Christopher is. And then I'll leave. My quarrel is with him. Save yourself." His words were like ice water thrown over her head, and Sheva let out a strangled moan. As much as she tried to deny it, Sheva knew in her heart of hearts that she was madly in love with Chris Redfield. Never in a million years would she ever give him up to Wesker. No matter the cost.

"I told you I don't know." Sheva was staring into Wesker's strange eyes, trying to convince him. His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, before a wicked glint lit in them. He flipped Sheva over harshly, holding her hips roughly in his hands; he pulled her posterior up and back against the hard bulge in his pants.

"Are you sure, Sheva?" Wesker's voice was low and menacing next to her ear. "Or do you just want to feel my cock in your ass?"

Fear rippled through Sheva, making her limbs tremble. She was silent, though; she'd give him nothing. He had her answer. Let him do his worst. The sound of Wesker's zipper coming down was slow, as if he were taking his time just to emphasize his purpose. Perhaps it was just the rush of adrenaline making things seem slower. Either way it was unnerving, and Sheva found herself breathing erratically as his hot and hard flesh rested against her bare cheeks.

"Last chance, Sheva, darling." He whispered against her ear, using his thumbs on either side of her ass to spread the flesh; the tip of his hard length poised against her opening. Something inside of Sheva broke; and with her tears falling down upon her twisted bedspread, she began sobbing; horrific hiccup-like sounds that tore down every wall she'd ever built around her heart. Wesker thrust forward, causing Sheva to scream out. The girl twisted in his iron grip, trying to buck him off her, but that only made Wesker shove her down between her shoulder blades and push into her again and again.

Something crunched hollowly, and Sheva screamed louder from the pressure that Wesker was exerting on her from behind. His hips slammed into her own furiously, making her spine ache with each stroke. Cruelly, he grabbed her hair and pulled her up so that she was on her knees in front of him, his hips still bucking furiously behind hers, slamming his cock into her ass with little ceremony. His hands reached around her, roving over her body roughly, demandingly. He kneaded her breast with one hand, and with the other he found her clit, rubbing it harshly.

"Tell me you want me." Wesker commanded huskily in her ear. When Sheva ignored him, he twisted her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making her cry out from the pain.

"I...I want you."

"Mean it." It came out as more of a growl.

Trying again, biting back bile, Sheva moaned out, "I want you, baby."

"Well, aren't you just the little whore?" Wesker teased, before nibbling at Sheva's ear. His fingers delved deeper, sliding into her warm opening, and Sheva groaned at the feeling. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He sounded mildly surprised.

"Please stop." Sheva begged, trying her hardest to not respond. Her body was going traitor, despite the pain that rippled through her frame. He slammed into her ever harder, seeking to hurt, maim; but Sheva felt herself becoming more and more aroused, moaning and writhing in his grip.

"Tell me what I want to know, Sheva, and I'll stop." Wesker promised, going slower now. Sweat beaded her brow, and she panted as he twirled his finger around her clit, before continuing to dip his finger in and out.

"Don't...please...oh, God." Sheva had never had much control when it came to sex; and her fear was making everything seem surreal. Not to mention what his fingers were doing to her. Even the pain in her rear was fading to a more pleasurable sensation, and Sheva felt shamed.

"Don't stop?" Wesker pulled himself from her flesh, and turned her to face him roughly. "My, my, you are quite the little slut, aren't you?"

"Don't do this, Wesker." She tried to back away from him, but he just grabbed her wrists and pulled her bare chest up against his leather clad form. Staring into his eyes, Sheva felt the tears coursing down her face, and she shivered as his hot breath fanned over her. Her body was terribly aware of his; and she was disgusted to find that she actually wanted him closer; wanted to feel his skin against her own.

Wesker was changing tactics; she could almost hear the wheels in his brain turning as he captured her lips with his own, his tongue seeking entry into her mouth. Sheva's will broke; and she leaned eagerly into his kiss.

"I should just kill you, Sheva. This isn't going as I'd planned." Wesker frowned down at her, but made no move to pull away. He watched her curiously as she brought her hands up to his chest, running her fingers along his muscles.

"Shut up, Wesker. If you were going to kill me, you would have already. We both know why you're here." Sheva said boldly, tracing his abs downwards, before bringing her hands up underneath his shirt. Wesker hissed when her hands touched his bare skin, and he brought his hand up to catch Sheva's throat.

"Enlighten me, then. Why am I here?" His tone was venomous; and his grip was bruising. Sheva was forced to look into his eyes as he waited for her answer.

"You want to fuck me. Because I'm his." Sheva whispered, and Wesker's grip loosened.

"No, Sheva. You are mine." His eyes burned into hers, and he released her throat suddenly, claiming her lips with his. The kiss was surprisingly gentle, almost loving. Sheva pulled at his shirt impatiently, but Wesker caught her hands and brought them over her head as he covered her body with his own. "Patience, love."

His tongue prodded hers, and Sheva moaned low in her throat as his mouth moved against her own. She hated him; and she suddenly had the urge to bite his tongue in two. Almost as if Wesker had heard her thoughts, his mouth moved lower, to her chin, along the curve of her throat; his tongue and teeth sliding past her collar bone. Sheva arched her back as he took one of her nipples into his mouth, suckling and nipping gently. Her fingers twined through his hair, causing the strands to tumble around his face, and as she looked down at him, he was staring right back at her; the heat from his gaze causing chills to race up and down her back.

"Oh, Wesker, please." Sheva wasn't sure exactly what she was asking for, but as Wesker's mouth traced it's way along her belly, all rational thought flew from her head. He wasn't....

His tongue was suddenly delving into her most secret of places, and Sheva let out a sharp cry of pleasure as it twirled around her aching clit, before Wesker began lapping at the opening itself. Her hips started to come up, but his hands were there all too quickly to hold her down. Sheva was going insane from the warmth of his mouth. He slid a finger into her, sucking on her clit, and Sheva yelped out in surprise. Her breathing was coming out in hard, sharp gasps, and she clamped her knees tightly against his shoulders. Wesker still didn't relent, instead sliding another finger into her tight opening, fingering her deftly.

"Ooh....God." Sheva cried out as her release came suddenly, and Wesker pulled himself up onto his knees, his eyes burning into her own. He grabbed her hips with his wide hands, and pulled her towards himself, making her squirm. Sheva was having trouble thinking clearly as his hands burned trails along her body, pulling at her flesh, caressing and teasing with his rough fingertips as his tongue licked hungrily against her breast; all rationality had flow from her. Her body was consumed with sensations, wracking her with uncontrollable tremors, and Sheva became aware of the little mewling noises that were escaping her lips.

"Moan for me." Wesker demanded huskily, before sinking his cock into her aching opening, and Sheva obliged without a second thought, his command unnecessary. Her inner muscles tightened around his hard length, and Sheva bucked up to meet his hips. Her lips sought his flesh, tickling across his jaw; moans punctuating her breathing. Wesker's arms wrapped around her shoulders gently but firmly, bringing her up to straddle his narrow hips while never breaking rhythm. Sheva twined her legs around his hips, grinding into him. Her nails grazed the hard plains of his back through his shirt, eliciting a ragged hiss from Wesker.

Throwing her head back, Sheva groaned; his dick sliding in and out of her harshly. The moment was pure bliss, and Wesker licked at her ear, before biting it lightly. Sweat ran in torrents down his brow. Sheva's hands roamed freely across his body, seeking for a hand-hold as he continued to slam his cock into her quivering pussy, wave after wave of agonizingly sweet torment crashing over her.

Impossibly, he quickened the pace; Holding her hips he lifted her up and down effortlessly, controlling Sheva's hips with the mastery of a professional. Grasping his shoulders for stability, Sheva cried his name out over and over, begging, tears coursing over her cheeks as her muscles began to spasm from the orgasm that loomed close. Just when Sheva thought that there was no way she could hold back any longer, Wesker pulled out of her. She almost sobbed at the suddenness of it, missing the warmth and width of him instantly.

"Not yet, Sheva. You'll come when I tell you to. Now, I want you to get off the bed and kneel down on the floor for me." Wesker said, and Sheva complied wordlessly. He sat on the edge of the bed, with her between his knees; his cock thick, swollen and long, almost impossibly so; the tip reached past his belly button by a good two inches. Sheva licked her lips, and looked up into his strange red eyes. Wesker brought his hand up to grab her hair, pulling on it lightly to make her head tilt back. He kissed her hard, before softening his mouth as if he'd forgotten once again to be rough; like his anger was melting away from the sweetness of her lips. Pulling back slightly, his eyes dazed, he smiled down at Sheva wickedly.

"Suck my dick, Sheva." The command was low, almost inaudible. Her hands trembling, Sheva took his swollen member in both hands, her digits sliding over the soft marble surface; before her lips teased the tip slowly, her tongue licking out to slide along the bottom side of his hardness. She felt it pulse beneath her fingertips, and looked up at him as her ears caught his breathy moan. That was all the encouragement she needed to take him fully into her mouth; swallowing as much as she could of his length, sucking and twirling her tongue along the shaft. Sheva could feel his hand on the back of her head, but Wesker didn't press her forward like she was expecting; instead he waited patiently for her to repeat the motion, merely holding her tangled and damp hair out of her face.

Sheva bobbed her head up and down shamelessly, seeking more noise than Wesker was giving her. Carefully, she ran her teeth along his shaft, causing Wesker to groan and hiss his approval. She repeated the action every so often, going slower now; and she could feel his cock throbbing on her tongue. Trembling with want, Sheva quickened her pace, taking him deeper with each motion of her head, until she felt his hips rising slightly to meet her waiting mouth. Flashing a look upward, Sheva found that Wesker's eyes were watching her intently, and she held his gaze steadily as she took his cock into her mouth all the way, swallowing involuntarily around his length as she felt it sliding into her open throat.

Wesker growled and tilted his head up, his eyelids sliding down low. He bared his teeth slightly, the air hissing though them roughly, before he locked eyes with her again.

"Do it again. Faster, Sheva." He breathed out, beads of sweat glistening across his brow. Sheva obeyed, relaxing the muscles in her throat consciously; bringing her lips down to the base of his erection, before sliding her mouth to the tip. Repeating the motion and licking her tongue out against the base made Wesker's cock pulse inside her throat, and he brought his hand up against the back of her head to hold her there while her tongue darted in and out of her lips hurriedly. Just when Sheva thought her lungs would burst from lack of oxygen, Wesker released her head.

Sitting back on her haunches, her jaw sore and her head spinning, Sheva breathed deeply a few times before bringing her head back down. Wesker's hand on her chin stopped her, and he made her look at him.

"Enough. Get on the bed, Sheva." She complied shakily, her legs trembling from the anticipation; crawling to the center of the mattress. Wesker stood, and in one fluid motion, pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a hairless, well-muscled chest and stomach; Sheva's eyes roved over his body with open lust. He merely stepped out of his pants, before in a lightning quick movement he was on top of Sheva, lips pressing down on her neck, hands kneading her breasts gently. He slid his knee between her legs, and Sheva spread her thighs wide.

Their flesh came together in a furiously wanton motion; His long, thick cock slamming roughly into her tight slit. Sheva clawed at his back, her hands roaming over the hard surface, before she grabbed his ass, nails biting into the flesh there as if she could pull him into herself further. All rhythm was lost as the pair sought only release, kissing and biting, clawing and licking. Sheva let out a startled scream as her orgasm broke open inside of her, before Wesker curled his lips back over his teeth, the muscles in his whole body tensing as he let out a guttural growl, his hot seed spilling into her; their bodies never once stopping their tortuous momentum.

Sheva's vision was blurred from the tears that coursed down her cheeks without her bidding, and she wasn't sure how long she'd been blissfully unaware of Wesker kissing the wet trails away, soothing her hair back gently.

"Don't cry, love. It's alright." His tone was tender, his lips soft against her hot face. His body was trembling, his breath hot and sweet-smelling. Sheva brought her hands up to cup his face, before kissing his forehead. She felt so drowsy, her inner muscles still spasming around his cock every so often. Moving was not an option; she doubted it very much that her legs would even be able to support her own weight at the moment. Their sweat was cooling along their skin, and their breathing began to return to a normal pace.

After a few more moments of silence, Sheva asked wearily, "What was that?" Wesker smirked down at Sheva, before pulling himself out of her.

"An orgasm." Wesker answered her, a ghost of a smile playing about his lips. He began dressing, not looking at her; in fact, he was ignoring her very presence quite well.

"I know that," Sheva said, a bit put off by his sudden distance. "I meant, well, what was that all about? What happens now?"

Looking dispassionately on her with those glowing red eyes, Wesker's lip turned up in a cruel smile, his fingers clasping the last button on his suit jacket. Sheva felt fear; cold and terrible as it spread through her limbs like ice water.

"Now, my dear; you die," Wesker said, and before Sheva could blink, his hands were around her neck, squeezing tightly. Just before she lost consciousness, he whispered into her ear, "I'd keep you, if you didn't mean so much to him. I think I may love you, if I am capable of such emotion."

Her last thought was a quote, fitting and oddly funny....

"Quoth the raven...'Nevermore.'"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Chris swore under his breath as he snapped his cell phone closed. Straight to her voice mail. Again. The streets glistened in his headlights from the rain earlier, making the world appear as though made of glass. It made sense; That's what his world felt like right now, anyway. It was as if his world was glass, and cracking at the edges, threatening to shatter around him.

She'd left him.

He'd asked her to marry him for the third time. She'd told him no. He'd asked why. They'd fought again, same old disagreements, same old lines. Blah, Blah, Blah. Chris couldn't understand it; they'd had their rough times, sure. But two years he'd loved her, thought she loved him. When she'd walked out of his apartment that night a month ago, he'd been sure, absolutely positive, that she'd come back to him. And then a week had past. No word. He'd called, only to have her hang up on him. Big deal. Another week, another call. Same thing.

The next week had almost killed him; but his stupid pride stopped him from making a third call, and Chris felt as if he'd really lose her this time if he didn't act now. Fuck his pride, fuck his dreams of settling down and raising a few kids in the house he planned on buying later this year; He had to have her; she was his life.

Sheva Alomar didn't want what most women did; she was dead set against marriage, and children were as foreign to her as this country. Her excuses always seemed so lame to Chris, she believed in statistics; and the statistics said that most marriages fail in the first five years. Why try?, she'd say. Why bother, when they were happy with what they had?, she'd insist.

But Chris had found out, in this month of silence, that he couldn't function without her. It almost felt as if he'd had his legs amputated, he felt absolutely useless. Sitting around the house, waiting for the call that never came. Neglecting his friends, turning down invites to poker, the club; just waiting, he'd wallowed in his own pride and self-pity long enough.

Damn it, he wouldn't let her walk away, not without fighting tooth and nail. Fine, they'd never get married. Kids?, forget he'd even mentioned it. As long as he could have her. Just her.

Turning into her driveway, his heart jumped in his chest wildly as he saw her purple 2008 Mustang GT. Sheva did love the color purple. Shifting his Jeep into neutral, he cut the engine, and smiled at his reflection nervously before he stepped out onto the slick pavement, the purple bouquet of orchids and pale pink roses held before him; the vase holding them feeling for all the world like a shield in his large hand.

The two story Victorian house loomed before him; the curtained windows dark save for the one he was looking for; her room, first window on the left. Her lamp was on; and he could see her body hanging from the wall inside; pinned cruelly to the wood paneling like a butterfly in a collection. Her mouth hung open, tongue lolling out; from what Chris could see from his position on the lawn, whoever had done this to her had tied or taped her head upright against the wall. For a moment he was glued to the spot, heart stopped in his throat. The vase fell. The glass broke.

And then he was running full tilt up the porch steps, shouldering through the door, and tearing up the stairwell and bolted into her bedroom; not caring, not thinking. Skidding to a halt in the threshold of her room, he grabbed the door frame for support as his vision was assaulted by the gory scene before him. Knees hitting the floor as his legs failed him, Chris felt the pain only absently. Rage and terror fought in his throat, preventing the scream from surfacing. Tears gathered in his vision, and he angrily blinked them away as he found his feet again.

His heartbeat was slow and pained as he approached the ruined body of his one true love.

"My god..." Chris whispered gruffly, bile rising in his throat as his eyes drank in the horror that lay before him. Sheva's nude form was strung up, cords and wires from alarm clocks, phone chargers, and various lengths of electrical line holding her hands stretched apart; blood dripped down her arms from where the cords cut into her wrists, now clotting and drying in rusty streaks that still shone in the light where they were thicker, more fluid. Chris could hardly bare the sight, yet he forced himself to follow the curve of her body; his eyes lingering in every spot that was bruised or cut.

When his eyes saw the devastation that remained of her slender neck, a small choked sound slipped from his throat. A thick band of bruises lay horizontally on the thin flesh there, a neck bone cocking out at an odd angle. Her head was held back with black electrical tape, her eyes held open by the same strip.

It had been a slow, painful death for this fragile African dove. Not wanting to know so much as needing to know, Chris' eyes fell lower, and he let out another sobbing noise at the blood that smeared her thighs.

A slight breeze caught something in it's grip on the bottom edge of his vision, and Chris' attention was drawn to a small cadaver toe tag hanging precariously from her neatly trimmed pinkie toe. Kneeling, he turned the small paper in his trembling fingertips, and felt a shock of pure hatred jolt through his gut.

The scrawl on the paper was familiar to Chris. It read as follows...

"Alomar, Sheva. Good fuck, weak neck.

Your sister is next, Christopher. I hope

she lasts longer than this one did."

In a violent move, Chris' hands found the lamp and within seconds, it was smashed against the floor, glass flying everywhere. He didn't think about it as he picked up the small table and threw it as well. Soon he was surrounded by broken things, pieces of glass, splinters of wood, shards of bent metal. He barely remembered doing any of it. As his senses came back to him ever so slowly, he felt nearly crippled by the fact that Sheva was dead.

Still he had work to do. Flipping his cell phone out of his pocket, Chris dialed his sister's number. After five rings, someone picked up. And the person's voice was low and menacing, and totally unwelcome to Chris' ears.

"Christopher, how nice of you to call," Wesker's voice was dripping with malice.

"Where's Claire?!" Chris was nearly shouting into the receiver.

"I'm afraid she's...tied up in something right this minute. I can take a message for her, if you'd like..." Wesker mocked, and Chris felt that blinding rage rising to unknown peaks. It made his blood pound in his ears, and his jaw hurt.

"Tell her I'm coming for her...And you, you sonuvabitch!" The words flowed from his mouth, his own voice strange to his ears.

"Ah, so you've received my gift. Would you believe that I had her moaning for my cock? Your whore, I mean. I was so disappointed when her neck snapped; I was planning on prolonging the experience for both of us. I wonder if you Redfields are as fragile." Chris felt his hope waning as Wesker chuckled into the phone.

"Let her go, Wesker. You can have me, just don't hurt my sister," Chris said as his heart dropped for the second time tonight. The air in his lungs seemed heavier with each breath, and Chris knew suddenly what was going to happen. He was going to die.

The thought strengthened him, even comforted him. Sheva was dead. The only thing worth living for was demolished, and this outcome held no surprises. Somehow, Chris had always known that his feud with Wesker would end in his own destruction.

"I could kill both of you. Why would I let her go? What leverage do you have against me, Christopher? What a fool you are! I owe you nothing!" Wesker laughed. "How's this for a deal? If you come and watch, I'll make her death quick and painless. Think, Christopher, before you open your mouth with some hapless never-say-die generic quote; I'll spare your last loved one from the same fate that Sheva suffered. Don't let her suffer for something so stupid as your pride."

Chris was silent for a minute, the world feeling like it had suddenly dropped out from under him. Claire was the only good thing left in his life; and he couldn't let her suffer. His tear-filled eyes fell on Sheva's ruined body, and he choked down a sob.

"Christopher? Are you still there?" Wesker's smug voice came across the receiver; and Chris swallowed his guilt down, buried the pain and hurt, and the rage that was threatening to blind him.

"Let her go. Please, Wesker," Chris' voice was even and devoid of feeling. "I'll do whatever you want me to, just keep her out of this. She's done nothing to you."

"You'll have to give me something in return for such a favor, Christopher. Perhaps, if you're willing to make a deal with the devil himself..." Wesker's voice trailed off, and Chris heard Claire screaming in the background.

"Whatever you want of me, Wesker. Just...let her go," Chris felt dead inside.

"I want Valentine, alive and breathing. As yet, I have been unable to locate her; and I have a feeling that you know exactly where she is," Wesker said, his voice cold and businesslike.

"I don't know where she went, Wesker. Jill disappeared over a year ago," Chris said desperately, the little shred of hope he'd had slipping away.

"Then, Christopher, I suggest you find her. You have a week," Wesker said.

"What about Claire?" Chris asked, concern etching his brow.

"Oh, don't worry about her. I'll make sure she's....well cared for in your absence," The madman chuckled on the other end, and he could hear Claire let out another muffled scream. "Hurry, Christopher. The clock starts now."

The line went dead. Chris stood for a moment, panting. His mind was reeling, trying to come up with any kind of plan. Nothing jumped out at him forthright. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Sheva's frail and broken form, before turning and running through the house and down the stairs, back to his Jeep.

Chris had to find Jill. It was the only option left. God help him, but Chris was going to give Wesker exactly what he had asked for. The Jeep roared to life, and he slammed it into reverse.

The only question was, where to start? Jill Valentine had fallen off the face of the planet for all intents and purposes. Serum P30, the crap that Wesker had been pumping into her veins for over two years, had turned out to be 20 times more addicting than heroine. She'd struggled in the government enforced rehab for six months, and had only stayed clean for three months after her release. Chris had watched his best friend and partner self-destruct. One day, she was just gone. He'd known about her relapse, had tried to help her.

How she got the stuff was a mystery to Chris, but he'd found her high and near-comatose, needle sticking out of her vein, more times than he could count. So he'd have to start at the base of the drug trade. Great. At least he had a starting point.

Picking his phone out of his pocket, he quickly dialed an old friend's number. Samantha, former caretaker, now the head of BSAA/DEA relations, was a cute and spunky little brunette who he'd worked with up until Kijuju. She'd been his main contact, his eyes and ears; much like Hunnigan was for Leon, for dozens of his single op missions. The woman was downright crazy; and right now, Chris had a feeling that he needed all the crazy he could get.

"Hello?" A voice said, and Chris drew a deep breath.

"Sam?" Chris asked.

"Yes, this is she. Christopher?" Sam asked cheerily, adding quickly, "How the hell are you?!"

"Not too good, actually. I need your help, Sam. Do you think you can help me out with a few things?" Chris held his breath as he waited for her answer.

"Yeah, yeah. What is is, man? What's going on?" Sam's voice had a note of concern in it; they'd been best of friends for a long time now.

"I need to find someone. Valentine, Jillian May. Missing approximately 14 months." Chris waited, hearing her fingertips clacking loudly on a keyboard. If he'd been in a better state of mind, he may have chuckled; Sam was always working.

"Says here there's no known leads on that case," Sam sighed. "I'm assuming this is off the record; so don't bullshit with me. Give me some background on why we're doing this."

"Long story, too little time. She's a P30 junkie, can you give me any info on known traffickers?" Chris asked, dodging the question. He could hear her hesitation, before she was once again typing furiously.

"Um...Here we go! This stuff is mostly only used by ex-military, the ones who got addicted during the initial trials. Keeps the list short. Got something to jot this down with?" Sam asked; the woman knew him too well. Pulling over, Chris dug through the glove box, and pulled out a road map and a green sharpie marker.

"Okay, I'm ready when you are," Chris said, poised anxiously.

"There's a list of twenty..." Sam's voice sounded a bit disappointed, and Chris almost groaned his frustration. "I'm going to localize the search, 300 miles within the DC area," More typing. "That's more workable! There's four, three damn near on the edge of my radius. Leaves us with one choice that makes sense when matched against her last known residence. Lars Ulrick." Chris scratched the name down, and then Sam rattled off an address.

"I'll start there, and get back with you when I've done my search," Chris said. "I appreciate this, Sammy." Flipping the phone closed, Chris halted anymore questions that the woman probably would've voiced if he'd given her two more seconds of air time.

Putting the Jeep in gear, Chris headed towards Larch street, and the industrial docks and warehouses that adjourned it. Lars Ulrick was going to receive him tonight, and the man had better hope that he had some answers; Chris was in a killing mood.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Claire was cold, naked, and scared. The duct tape around her wrists and ankles dug into her flesh uncomfortably as she struggled against it. Wesker had disappeared, slipping wordlessly out of her own bathroom and leaving her here, alone and bewildered, nearly an hour ago. She'd heard the phone conversation, and had tried to scream for help. Now, as she lay on the cold linoleum floor trussed up like livestock, Claire wondered not for the first time what the hell this had all been about.

She'd been getting ready to take a bath when she'd seen Wesker's reflection smirking at her in the doorway, and Claire hadn't had any time to even think before he had her slammed up against the wall. He hadn't spoken a single word the entire time that he'd been here, and Claire found that even more disturbing than if he'd been mocking and cruel. At least she knew how to deal with viciousness from him. This whole silent treatment thing was giving her a really bad feeling, not that the sight of Wesker had ever inspired anything better than that.

No, it was just unnerving that no matter how much Claire had screamed and kicked, begged and pleaded, bit or scratched; Wesker hadn't reacted to any of it. It was as if a robot had come into her house, and tied her up for absolutely no reason. A million and one possibilities had gone through her head since he'd left the room. Everything pointed back to one reason: Wesker was using her as bait for her brother Chris.

Heavy, plodding footsteps echoed behind the door, and Claire brought her knees up to her chest. She felt so exposed right now, so vulnerable; the feeling was nearly overwhelming. The knob turned, and as the door swung inward her heart started beating furiously in her chest. Wesker stepped through the door, and she shuddered as his red eyes roved over her body slowly. He bent down, and grabbed for her ankles, and Claire took the opportunity to kick out at his face. His other hand came lashing out, and in a move she wasn't even sure she'd seen, he'd snatched her bound ankle, flipping her onto her stomach, and tugged her across the linoleum. Claire squirmed, twisting her torso and trying to pull her legs out of his iron grip. It was no use. She felt like a rag doll as he continued to drag her down the hallway.

Claire winced as she was dragged across the threshold to her bedroom, the door jam rough against her skin. The friction that began to build beneath her from her plush carpet was becoming more and more painful, and she yelped out just before Wesker released her, and the journey appeared to be over. For a moment she lay there, not moving. Fear held her immobilized; perhaps a few seconds past, maybe an hour. It had felt like an hour, at any rate. There was nothing but silence pressing in on her, and Claire turned her head around to stare at the spot where she'd imagined that Wesker would be standing.

He was there, alright. Just standing there, staring down at her. Claire's blood ran cold at that look. It was like he was eying a piece of meat. Her body began to shake from the fear, and she felt more helpless than she ever had.

"Your brother left a message for you," Wesker said conversationally. "He said he's coming to get you. If he's true to his word, then we can expect him here within the week." Claire's mind reeled at his words; they just didn't make sense! Why would it take him a week? He lived across town; Chris wouldn't ever leave her in Wesker's hands unless...

Realization dawned on her. Something had happened to Sheva, something very bad. And whatever had happened to Sheva, Wesker must've threatened to do the same to her. Still, why would it take a week? Claire couldn't come up with a good explanation. Things weren't adding up at all.

"Why are you doing this?" Claire asked, for what seemed like the billionth time tonight.

"Why?" Wesker asked, and Claire shuddered at his gritty tone. "Your brother has been the thorn in my side for far too long. At every turn, every pinnacle point in my life, he has been there to ruin all of my carefully laid plans. It's uncanny, really. The mansion in Raccoon City; no one was supposed to survive that!" Wesker began to pace. "And yet, Christopher exceeded all of my expectations, surpassed them even! On Rockfort, I just so happen to find you. Coincidence? Hardly. I think fate would be a much better word, don't you?

"Of course your brother would come riding in on his white horse to your rescue; destroying my whole plan in the process!" With each word, Wesker seemed to get more agitated. "Kijuju..." The word came out as a growl, and Claire shuddered as his pacing ceased and his strange red eyes locked with her own. "Christopher and his bitch almost killed me. The bitch has paid in full for her sins against this God..." A twisted smile graced his thin lips, and Claire gasped. It was worse than she'd ever thought: Sheva must be dead. She knew her brother well enough to know that he'd be beyond devastated. Chris had anger issues, most of her boyfriends had found that out quickly. She shuddered to think what he'd do if he found Sheva dead...

"What does that have to do with me?" Claire asked.

"'Why me?!'" Wesker mocked, anger seeping into his tone. Claire had never seen him this emotional. The villain she was used to was always collected and cool, indifferent. Something must have snapped inside of his brain. "Because you and that bitch were the only things he cared about. What better way to make him suffer? He'll blame himself eventually for Sheva's demise. Perhaps he already does. One can hope." Wesker shrugged, and knelt down beside her. She flinched as his hand came down and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Now, what can you and I do to pass the time? Any ideas, Miss Redfield?"

"Untie me, and let me get dressed," Claire suggested. She knew running wasn't an option. He could smash her so easily, hurt her in so many ways...and she wasn't fond of the idea of getting raped by this maniac. With some clothes on, she'd feel a lot better about the whole situation.

"Tsk, tsk...And deny myself the sight of such beauty? I think not. I could untie you, however. You don't seem to be as irrational as your older brother. Do I have your word that there will be no escape attempt? I'd hate to think of snapping your neck before it's time," Wesker said, his usual chilling monotone returning.

"Yes. This tape is too tight, I can't feel my fingers," Claire said, and within seconds her bindings were cut. Tearing the tape off her wrists in a hurry, she sat up, bringing her knees up to her chin. She didn't move from her position on the carpet, however. Wesker's eyes were on her the entire time, that same look from earlier resurfacing; the one that reminded her of a starving wolf staring at a wounded caribou. Without meeting his gaze, she whispered out, "Thank you."

He stood, and offered her his hand. She glanced at it, her heart fluttering desperately in her chest. Should she take it? Claire had seen him in action, and this man scared her more than anyone ever had. Deciding that pissing him off wouldn't be in her best interest, she took his hand and let him help her to her feet. She covered herself as best as she could with her hands, shivering violently. Wesker knocked her hands down to her sides, his eyes roving over her entire body.

"You are quite lovely, Claire," Wesker said, his fingertips grazing down her sides, across her hips, sliding back up and across her stomach as he slowly began to circle her. Claire's teeth were chattering in her head from the fear that held her to the spot. Everywhere he touched burned, scorching her to her core. Finally, he stopped behind her. And then his arms were wrapping themselves around her, his breath hot against her neck. "I'm going to have so much fun with you."

At those words, Claire let out a sudden dry sob, tears beginning to spill down her face. She felt numb as his hands traced the curves of her body downward, and when Wesker's fingers slid through her pubic hair she started bawling. Faintly, she heard him shushing her. Only faintly.

Unable to breathe, Claire became more and more disoriented. She was on the verge of passing out, and somewhere in her hazy state, Claire realized that she was slipping into a state of shock. This wasn't happening. This wasn't real, it couldn't be real. Her legs gave out suddenly, and a surging darkness came up to cloud her vision.

Claire welcomed it. Anything to make this go away...

Wesker held the limp body of his hated enemy's sister in his arms, feeling disappointed. He had hoped that being a Redfield, the girl would have some fight in her; Instead, her weak human mind had imploded and caused her to lose consciousness. No matter. There was still plenty of time for him to torment her. Christopher was off chasing a ghost; if he himself hadn't been able to find Jillian, he doubted that she was still alive.

Gathering the girl up into his arms, he carried her to the bed and carefully laid her down. For a moment, he stood over her, before he brushed her soft, auburn hair out of her face and covered her with a blanket from the end of the bed. Gently, he kissed her lips, tasting her with his tongue. They tasted faintly of strawberries.

His phone rang in his pocket, and he flipped it open as he straightened.

"How is Christopher doing?" Wesker asked.

"Traveling east. He just turned down Larch Street. Towards the warehouses. Do you want me to engage the subject?" The woman's voice on the other end waited patiently.

"No. Keep out of sight, but in range of any conversations. I'll expect a status report within the next twenty four hours," Wesker ordered.

"Understood. And Wesker?" The voice was hesitant for a moment. "What if he finds her?"

"Let him bring her to me." With that, Wesker snapped the phone closed. He turned away from the bed and caught his reflection in a mirror; he still had specks of the whore's blood on him. Down the hall, the bath that Claire had drawn beckoned to him. Ever prepared, Wesker had a suitcase in his '69 Dodge Charger with a few changes of clothes and various toiletries. Foregoing the door, he opted for the quicker option; the window. Being the dead of the night, in the middle of a wide rural area, he had little to fear in the way of neighbors and subsequent witnesses.

In no time at all, Wesker was sinking his body into the tepid water the bathtub contained. The blood washed away, but his memories wouldn't fade. Anger filtered upward as he thought about how he'd awoken from the volcano's mouth. His body had suffered greatly; and although he had healed now with no scars to outwardly show for it, his sanity had suffered more. Failure was not in his vocabulary. Yet, everytime his path crossed with Christopher's, it seemed to be all he could manage to do.

No, Wesker would kill him.

And this time, failure was not an option...


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Day One

Wringing out a washcloth, he draped it over his eyes, and leaned back with a contented sigh. How long he lay like that, he couldn't tell, but it felt good.

He heard something from the master bedroom. Grunting low, Wesker hoisted himself out of the tub and grabbed a towel off the rack. His superb hearing picked up the sound of rustling clothes. Frowning, he draped the towel around his waist and strode back determinedly to where he'd left his captive. She was standing outside the closet, hoisting a pair of jeans up her long, shapely legs, and Wesker leaned languidly against the entryway, just watching her dress.

He watched as she shakily opened her dresser drawer; why anyone would keep a dresser in their closet was beyond his reasoning. He admired the way her auburn hair spilled across her pale back, the flesh peek-a-booing a little bit more each time Claire moved, and Wesker felt himself growing aroused. That was strange...Usually that didn't occur until he had caused a woman extreme distress. Fear gave him power, and power was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Curiosity kept him where he was; never before had a woman's looks alone been able to produce a physical reaction so powerful. Claire pulled a sapphire blue bra out of the drawer she had been searching in, and within seconds she had it clasped and in place. Pity; he would have loved to see her perky breasts again. Absently, he wondered if her panties would be the same color. He hadn't noticed before. Wesker's eyes followed her hands as they gently closed the drawer before moving upwards to clasp around a black tank top. His cock bobbed as his eyes followed the movement of her body as she pulled the blouse down around her amazonian frame.

Where Sheva had been small and dainty, Claire was over-endowed; fire and passion exuded from her every movement. The girl was, to use a layman's term, stacked. Delectably large breasts with tiny pale pink nipples, a flat, toned stomach; added with legs that went all the way up to a shapely rear end...she was perfectly constructed. Her face wasn't hard on the eyes, either. Full, pink, kiss-me-now lips curved bow style, fine, high cheekbones; and then rich cobalt blue eyes were suddenly boring into his own. Claire stood facing him, her long hair spilling down over her shoulders and shading her face as she dropped her gaze. For a moment, silence enveloped the two, and Wesker crossed his arms across his chest, continuing to drink in the sight of her.

"How...how long was I out?" Claire asked quietly, breaking the silence. Her eyes darted up to meet his for a fraction of a second before they once again found a spot on the floor just in front of his feet. This wasn't fear; no, he would have smelt that. This was respect. Cocking his head slightly to the side, Wesker pondered the ramifications of such a possibility.

The girl considered herself his equal. Even in this situation, she thought of herself as being on the same level that he was on. What Wesker had just found in Claire was an ego that equaled his own.

"Only for an hour or so. I hope you don't mind that I bathed," Wesker replied softly. He wanted her. Pliant and willing. Anybody could force a woman. It was the easiest thing in the world. Wesker himself preferred a challenge. Sheva had been astounding, but somehow Wesker suspected that Claire would be better. Such a strong will, such fire and passion nearly bursting out at him... She would be magnificent.

"Not at all," Claire said, not raising her gaze. This annoyed him. Dropping the towel at his feet and standing nude before her, Wesker waited for Claire's curiosity to get the better of her. The seconds ticked by ever so slowly, and the longer he waited, the harder he could feel himself becoming.

It took nearly a full minute, but finally her eyes lifted, tracing a path upwards. Claire's gaze seemed to burn him, and Wesker could feel his blood rushing through his body hotly. Her eyes widened when they landed on his throbbing phallus but she didn't look away, much to his surprise. Instead, her eyes continued their appraisal of his form; Such ego! She must know what he wanted, and the girl should have been terrified... Instead she seemed perhaps even more curious. Her eyes locked with his.

There was no fear in that look. Claire's blue eyes stared levelly with his own for a moment more, before she turned her head, blushing furiously. The reaction confused him. Wesker had never failed to intimidate anyone, and the bruise to his ego was suddenly more than he could take. In three long strides he was in front of her, tilting her face up with his fingers to meet his gaze again.

"You're not frightened?" Wesker asked, his eyes boring into hers.

"Of course I am. I'd have to be an idiot not to be scared," Claire said, her face a pretty shade of pink. "It's just that..." She hesitated, and he could see her trying to link the right words together in her head. "You could have done worse to me."

"There's still time for that," Wesker said. Claire shuddered slightly in his grip, but her eyes still held no fear. Either she was extremely practiced at bluffing, or he really hadn't scared her as much as he'd thought.

"Are you going to rape me?" Claire asked, and at that moment he glimpsed a tiny sliver of fear in her.

"Is that what you think of me? What I'm going to do to you isn't even close. You can't rape the willing, as it were," Wesker said, a small smile playing on his lips. Bringing his face seconds away from hers, Wesker stared deeply into her cobalt blue eyes, before he brought his lips down gently onto hers. For a moment, he could feel Claire's shock, before she tried to back up. Wesker brought his arms around her quickly, stopping her escape.

His hands were gentle on her, even as she fought to gain her freedom. There was a moment where Claire seemed to relax and return his affections; but such was not the case. Her knee was suddenly slammed into his groin, and Wesker felt the wind rush out of him at the unexpected attack. He released her, and grabbed his aching manhood reflexively.

Anger nearly blinded him for a moment, before he realized that Claire hadn't fled the house, or even the room. In fact, she was still standing in front of him, her hand covering her mouth as if she couldn't believe she had just done what she had.

"That was unwise," Wesker said as he straightened, the pain slipping away.

"I...I'm sorry! I panicked! I..I didn't mean to! I...you...Oh my god," Claire stuttered out. She looked utterly aghast, and Wesker's anger diminished instantly.

"Don't fight me, Claire. I won't hurt you," Wesker said, closing in on her. "I want you. Soon, you'll be begging for it. Besides, what have you got to lose? Let's be honest with each other. You're going to die soon. I've sent your brother out on a fool's errand. I doubt he'll be able to save you. Would it be so horrible if you enjoyed your last days?"

Claire let out a giant rush of air, and for a split second Wesker was sure that she'd pass out again as the girl teetered on her feet at his words. Her knees buckled beneath her, and he reached out to catch her. For a while he held her up, listening to her nearly hyperventilate. Claire's weight was slight as he scooped her up into his arms and settled himself with her in his lap on the end of her canopied bed. He watched her face, enrapt as tears began to spill silently down her cheeks.

"Perhaps that was a bit harsh. I should have phrased that better," Wesker said, unsure of what exactly was compelling him to apologize. Of course, since Kijuju, he had experienced strange and inexplicable emotions, and spells of unexplained rage. It was as if in nearly dying he had regained a sliver of his humanity.

"I won't," Claire whispered stubbornly. This tiny glimpse of that inner fire he'd sensed before was heartening. It proved to him that there was a spirit worth squashing inside of her.

Chris walked lightly, crouched low against the wall of the warehouse where the alleged drug manufacturing plant was supposed to be hidden. He didn't doubt Sam's information, but somehow the law still held precedence over his life; he still firmly believed that everyone was innocent until proven guilty. Wesker had hung himself with his little note...Just thinking about how he'd tortured Sheva spurred him into a fit of anger, made him want to scream his frustrations and bust into the building, guns blazing.

Shaking his head, Chris quickly stowed his rage and sorrow down. Now was not the time for mourning. Claire's life was at stake here, and he wouldn't fail her. Some boxes were stacked close to a window, and Chris hoisted himself up quickly and carefully. The glass was beyond dirty. Black soot and caked on dirt blocked his view inside almost completely. Only a small corner was left for his eye to peer through.

Inside, there were five men all diligently working around what looked like a meth lab. They were cooking something, alright. Chris just hoped it was the right something. There wasn't any time for mistakes. Climbing down nimbly, Chris continued on towards a side entrance, and with his back held tight to the wall, he reached over and tried the handle. To his surprise the door opened slightly, and he peeked through the small sliver of space between frame and door that he'd created before moving to widen the entrance to accommodate his statuesque body.

Sweeping the area in front of him, silenced gun at the ready, Chris moved on the balls of his feet ever so slowly to hide behind a stack of boxes and barrels. Keeping low, he followed the sounds of voices; they were speaking a mix of broken English and Russian. The conversation was lost to him completely. Most of their English was swearing, bickering over stupid shit, and he knew not a word of Russian.

Chris rested behind a couple barrels just behind a guard with a gun, to the far corner of their circle. The blonde man was huge, with muscles as big if not bigger than his own and Chris caught sight of a machete strapped to his right leg. The other four were obviously less of a threat to him; lab rats with 9mm. A divide and conquer strategy was forming in Chris' head.

Looking around his feet, Chris selected a tiny chunk of concrete, and threw it to his left in a corner behind a bunch of boxes stacked three high, and five deep. The projectile hit a barrel, pinging loudly and echoing throughout the room. Everyone fell silent.

"Nick, Kristoff, go," The big blonde spoke; surprising Chris. He would have pegged the big guy as a henchman, not the brains. But two broke away from the small circle, drawing their guns as they did. Moving as quietly as he could manage, Chris ran down a narrow passage that the boxes created, before climbing up so that he was looking down at Nick and Kristoff as they came cautiously down the same track that he'd traveled just seconds ago. Impossibly, they stopped, just where he'd climbed up. Chris watched as the two seemed to bicker, both decidedly unsure of where to go.

Throwing his whole weight into the crate he was leaning on, Chris slid the heavy box forward, and too late the pair below him heard it; the wooden box fell directly on them. As he watched blood seeping out from underneath the box, Chris jumped down, landing heavily on his feet, and beat feet; the commotion he'd created was bringing company. Shouts rang out behind him. They'd found the human pancakes.

Making sure the silencer was still properly secured, Chris ducked behind some barrels and as one of the Russians passed him at a full sprint, he aimed and fired into the back of the guy's skull. The man dropped like a rock instantly, blood misting the air pink in his wake. Almost immediately, someone was firing at him, shots ricocheting off the cement and splintering boxes near his head. As the wooden shrapnel flew, Chris was up and running again, circling around to his original position.

Something dropped down on top of him, and for a split second Chris thought it was a box. That is, until the box started to pummel him. Opening his eyes and focusing, Chris identified his assailant as the giant blonde; and yes, the man was definitely bigger than himself. Kicking out, Chris managed to knock the big guy back long enough so that he could gain his feet. The blonde raised his submachine gun, grinned at Chris, and tossed it on a stack of boxes to the left like trash. Confused, Chris raised his own pistol and pointed it at the man, his heart thudding furiously and his mind reeling.

Why would he drop his gun? This wasn't Russia; Chris didn't want to fuck around. He had business to attend to, and hand-to-hand combat was not on the roster.

The blond pulled his machete, and in the same move brought the weapon hammer-style towards Chris' hand. Chris barely saved his digits, and lost his grip on the gun. As it clattered to the ground, the big guy brought the machete swinging back in an upwards slash, and Chris had to jump back or be gutted. The blonde kept coming at him, machete swinging in flashing arches, and Chris had to keep backing up. This wasn't working...

Chris knew he had to get out into an open space if he wanted to have a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of this alive. His knife, a mere eight inches, wouldn't be any match against the giant machete. If Chris could just find something to go tit-for-tat with this guy...

Suddenly the world was pulled out from underneath him as his foot slipped on something; which coincidently turned out to be a good thing because he watched (almost as if in slow-motion) the machete's blade skim past his nose as he fell flat on his back. Scrambling to get out of the Russian's way, Chris' hand landed on what had tripped him: a lead pipe about two feet long. Tightening his grip around the cold metal, Chris brought it in front of him just in time to deflect the machete. Not waiting for the guy to recover from the force of the recoil, Chris brought the pipe back and swung as hard as he could at his enemy's kneecap.

The response was instantaneous; the man fell to the ground howling in pain, machete clattering as it fell out of his meaty hand. Not wasting any time, Chris brought the pipe up again and cracked the blonde over the head twice. Blood spurted from the head injury he'd inflicted, a long and ugly gash. If the man wasn't dead, he would at least have one hell of a headache when he awoke.

Climbing to his feet, Chris crept carefully over the big man's body back in the direction that he'd lost his gun. While the lead pipe was efficient as a close quarters measure, it would ultimately prove useless against the remaining thug. Breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted his silenced Mark 23, Chris laid the pipe down, picked up his gun, and as an afterthought, picked up the Russian's gun and slung it over his shoulder as well.

"Freeze!" The highly accented voice rang out shakily in front of him. Chris stopped moving, and assessed the man standing before him. Dark brown hair, maybe 5'6" tall, five-o-clock shadow over a narrow chin...The guy looked like a frightened mouse. The 9mm in his hand shook uncontrollably, and he looked like he'd rather eat the gun than face Chris. His obvious youth was the only thing that stopped Chris from dropping low and blasting a hole between this guy's eyes.

"I'm just looking for Lars. I need to speak with him," Chris said, standing taller. The trick was to show no fear. "It's life-or-death."

"Lars? You've met him already. I watched you beat his head in with that pipe," The mouse man said. "Why do you want to speak with him? Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

"Look, I'm just trying to find an old friend. Maybe you've seen her? Her name is Jill, about your height, blonde hair, blue eyes; she's a junkie?" Chris was inwardly cursing this new development. He hadn't thought that the big guy would be THE guy.

"Jill? I know her. She's here almost every day," The man said, his accent so thick that Chris had to strain to understand. "What do you want with that trash?"

Keeping his temper under check, Chris returned, "I need to find her. It's more important than anything. My name's Chris. Let's put the guns down and talk for a minute." Chris holstered his weapon slowly, and almost breathed a sigh of relief when the other man did the same.

"Tell me your story, Chris. I will help you. I owe you," The man said. Chris' brow furrowed in confusion at the words, and the man laughed. "Lars was no friend of mine. I was his indentured servant. Seven years of servitude to such a domineering man...But we are not speaking of me. You have released me from him. I'm in your debt."

"What is your name?" Chris asked, feeling grateful that the man was co-operating with him.

"Ivan. Please, I owe you my life," The man said.

"My sister's life is in danger. I have to find Jill. She's the only one who can help," Chris said, guilt pressing in on him.

"Jill? The woman, she is useless. How do you think she can help you? The only thing she lives for is the drug," Ivan asked, obviously confused.

"Never mind the how. I just need to find her," Chris said, and then as an afterthought, he asked, "Since Lars is dead, might I have a few spikes as incentive for her? I have a feeling that she's not going to come willingly if I come empty-handed."

"Yes, yes. Take as much as you want. As to where she lives, no one is sure. But I guarantee that she will be here, probably soon. The last spike she had was over twelve hours ago, but she's got to make more money before she comes back here," At that, Ivan's face flushed. "She is...how do you say it in English? A prostitute? Yes, I think that is the word."

The news shocked Chris, but then again, it made sense. Jill hadn't come from the most moral of backgrounds; her father had been a jewel thief who was still moldering away in a prison cell, and her mother...Well, Jill had never talked about the most absent of her parents.

The prospect of waiting, however, wasn't sitting well with Chris. It made more sense; going and searching the docks for a woman who didn't want to be found would prove useless. But Chris wasn't looking forward to the time alone with his thoughts. When he was moving, actively searching, he could control the pain. Right now, all he wanted to do was break something.

"Come, let's go to the office. We can wait for her there," Ivan said, smiling amiably. "We can talk for a while."

"Alright," Chris conceded. What other choice did he have?


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Claire's mind was working in overtime. How could she get out of this? Guns didn't work against him, explosives; not even lava had been able to defeat him! How in the hell was she ever going to get herself out of this? Perhaps she could reason with him?

"You said you sent my brother out on a fool's errand. What is he doing?" Claire asked, pulling herself together.

"I've simply told him to find Jill. My revenge can't be complete without all of the offenders present, now can it? I've had two years, Claire. If she were alive, don't you think I would have found her by now? She was the first one on my list. You always save the best for last; and your brother is my last order of business," Wesker said, his voice cold.

"So you think Jill is dead?" Claire wanted to keep him talking. She could still feel his erection pressing against her bottom, and it was unnerving. His body beneath hers was solid and warm, and she just wished that he'd let her go.

"Yes," he returned, bringing his hand up to cup her chin. Claire inwardly recoiled at the touch, but held his gaze anyway. "Have you thought about what I said before? I want you. There is no shame in enjoying life. Do you find me so repulsive?"

"I..." Claire didn't want to invoke his anger, but neither did she want to lie. "You're not the easiest person to get along with. I'd rather not."

Wesker laughed, a warm and hearty sound. "I admire your honesty, Claire." There was a brief hesitation, and as Claire watched Wesker in the growing silence she was confused as he cocked his head slightly to the left, his eyelids twitching for about thirty seconds, before they rolled back into his skull. Not knowing what to expect, Claire found her feet and stood looking at Wesker uncertainly.

The tyrant just sat there, eyes rolled into perfect white, head to the side and jaw slack. Claire wasn't sure what he was doing; It was almost as if he were suffering some kind of seizure... And that's when Wesker bolted to his feet, swinging out at her four poster bed, snapping the wood and sending shards everywhere. Shocked by this sudden burst of violence, Claire quickly backed away, her heart thundering in her chest as the fear rose. From the unlucky bedpost, Wesker continued his destructive behavior, unleashing his fury on the hapless furniture and objects. Claire found herself edging towards the door, but was stopped by her floor lamp as it came sailing at her face. Ducking, Claire quickly found her way into a corner that, as yet, had been left untouched by the enraged BOW.

There were holes appearing in her walls almost quicker than her eyes could see, and with a vicious snarl, Wesker ripped her curtain off her window. He was stumbling now, breathing heavily and sweating rivers. The man-beast collapsed to his knees, and then sank down on the ground face up; the whites of his eyes were almost totally bloodshot and his teeth were clamped down so tight that Claire could hear them grinding from her spot in the corner. Totally dumbfounded, Claire stood with her mouth agape, just staring at the still form of Wesker amidst the debris. Wesker's breathing was becoming ragged, the air he was intaking whistling weakly as it escaped his lips. Wheezing and sputtering, the tyrant's breathing hitched a few times; he looked a bit like a fish out of water as he opened his mouth to gasp for air. And then Claire watched as he quit breathing altogether; the blood that had made his face so red just moments before seeping into a stonier, pale gray color.

For a full minute, Claire could do nothing but stand and stare at Wesker's lifeless form, not believing what she'd just seen. Then, gathering her courage, the brunette stepped forward on wobbly legs to stand over the fallen tyrant. His red eyes were wide and she shuddered as she watched blood seep down the side of his face from the corner of his staring orbs. Becoming more bold, Claire knelt down and touched two fingers to his neck.

There was no pulse. Wesker was dead. Suddenly feeling morose, Claire brought her fingertips to rest over his eyes, and brought the lids down. Turning her gaze to the devastation that was her bedroom, Claire sighed and started to stand, when of a sudden, Wesker's hand came up to grip her wrist.

A startled shriek escaped her lips, and Claire tried to pull out of his grasp. Like a bulldog, Wesker hung on. It was useless; his fingers were going to crush her wrist if she kept fighting. Still, she twisted and tried to wrest her arm from his iron grip.

"Stop!" Wesker's voice boomed out, and Claire found herself obeying. He opened his eyes and caught her gaze, her wrist still in his hand. "How long?"

The question threw her off balance, and all Claire could do was stare at him in total confusion. Wesker dropped her wrist in disgust, and looked around himself at the annihilated room.

"Not long, I'm guessing. Damn it!" Wesker said, climbing to his feet. Turning to Claire, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She was surprised to find that his whole body was trembling; this wasn't a domineering hug, or a lecherous one. No, something in Claire could sense that he was holding onto her for comfort and balance. Whatever had just happened to him must scare him as much, if not more, than what it had her. Despite her reservations, Claire returned his embrace awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

Wesker was the one to break the embrace first, and Claire was glad to have him at arm's length again. He seemed to be pulling himself together, shrugging the...well, whatever it was, off. She watched as he walked to the door.

"Come with me," Wesker ordered, his voice flat. Claire followed him through the doorway, looking for an opportunity to slink out into the dark of her yard. If she could just get to her car...The real problem was getting far enough out of Wesker's reach; the tyrant was wickedly fast and terribly strong. Claire knew that she didn't stand a chance against him.

"What are we doing? Where are we going?" Claire asked, keeping her eyes on the floor so she didn't have to look at Wesker's bare backside. The man, despite being an evil genius and a monster, possessed an enviable physique. If Claire hadn't known him, and had just met him...He was definitely her type body wise. She could feel her face burning from the blush that stained her face suddenly at the thoughts flitting through her brain.

"I require sustenance. Since Kijuju...My body has undergone changes. What you witnessed was basically a system shut-down, akin to a computer reboot. The Progenitor Virus heals me, but without all of my synopses and nerves running at full capacity at times I experience 'fugue' states. Are you following me so far, Claire?" Wesker asked, surprising her as he turned to face her. She was staring pointedly at his feet, her face still red as a beet, no doubt. As the silence stretched on, she was surprised to hear Wesker chuckle. "My body must please you. You may look your fill, Claire. Touch, if you feel the need. I don't mind."

"I...it's not that, I'm just embarrassed," Claire stuttered out quickly, her face feeling like it was burnt.

"Embarrassed? For what, my dear heart?" Wesker asked her, and Claire swallowed and met his gaze. The corners of his eyes were turned up slightly; he was amused. Claire could have screamed her frustration. She hated arrogant men, and Wesker definitely took the cake as far as arrogance went.

"My house is a mess. I'm not the best housekeeper in the world," Claire said quickly. Wesker gave her an uncertain look, before he decided it didn't matter and turned his gaze back to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he rummaged through her leftovers, a frown on his face.

"Haven't you anything edible?" Wesker asked. Claire didn't know what to tell him; she usually just called for pizza or something when she wanted food. Wesker was holding a box of leftover chinese food in his hand, and he sniffed the package, before twisting his lip up in a grimace of disgust.

"Check the freezer. I think I have a TV dinner or two up there," Claire offered, trying to remain cool and collected. With Wesker in her kitchen nude, suddenly everyday objects in Claire's own house became worthy of study. She had to look anywhere but at him. He was going to kill her, and probably her brother; not to mention what he'd already done to Sheva and god only knew who else; and yet for some reason all Claire could focus on was how long it had been since she'd seen a man who was so...big.

Wesker did as she had instructed, and as he was rummaging though the ice box Claire slowly strolled around her kitchen, gently easing her way to the cupboard above the sink. Reaching up, she grabbed for a glass. Her hands were trembling terribly, and with such unsteady fingers, Claire fumbled with the glass for a moment before it slipped out of her hand and went plummeting towards the floor. As a reflex, Claire stepped back and closed her eyes, but no sound of shattered glass sounded in her ears; there was no sound at all. Confusion crept into her senses, and Claire opened her eyes only to gasp at Wesker's proximity: the man was standing inches in front of her face, the cup held securely in his giant hand.

His lip turned up ever so slightly at the corner, and Claire felt her anger suddenly flare up. He shouldn't be in HER house, going through HER things, threatening HER family and friends... She couldn't help it when her hand shot out suddenly, smacking him square in his smug face. Wesker's head snapped to the side, and it was then that he let out a growl; a low, guttural sound that froze the very marrow inside of her bones.

Claire turned on her heels and began to run, her heart pounding fast and erratically in her chest as she blindly barreled out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door. By the time she stepped down off her porch steps, Wesker was grabbing her roughly by her shoulders, tearing her backwards. Claire's feet lifted off the ground, and she was thrown down to her hands and knees.

"Just where do you think you are going?" Wesker's voice boomed out above her, and Claire tried to push herself to her feet only to have the wind knocked out of her by a swift kick to her stomach. Rolling onto her back in the grass, Claire gasped for air, clutching her hands to her gut as pain flowed through her body from the blow. Before she could think, he was over her, pressing his body over hers. Screaming in outrage, Claire brought up her hands and began to beat at him, but Wesker snagged her wrists in a vise-like grip and forced her hands above her head.

"Get off me!" Claire shouted up at him, struggling against his solid form. She tried to get her feet beneath her, to push him off her; but nothing worked. The man was immovable. Panic settled in on her senses, and Claire let out a snarl before arching her back and lifting her body and her assailant off the ground; and with no hesitation Claire threw her weight to the side. Wesker's body rocked on top of her, but he caught himself with his knee, and once again used his bigger size to his advantage as he pinned her down.

"You are quite feisty, Claire. I like my women that way," Wesker taunted above her, and his words doubled her efforts to throw him off her; but it was useless. Claire was panting, crying, and more pissed off than she could ever remember being; and no closer to being free of him. As she slowly accepted the fact that she was trapped, Claire focused her teary gaze at Wesker's face, wishing with all of her might that his head would explode, or he'd catch on fire, or even better, her brother would show up and blow the bastard's brains across the yard.

Suddenly, Claire's attention was drawn by movement over Wesker's shoulder, and before she could recognize what or who it was, something crashed into the side of her tormentor's head. As Wesker's form slumped down to the lawn, Claire could only gape at his still form in awe. A moment passed, and then a chunk of fire wood was tossed on top of Wesker's body.

"Claire, are you alright?" A voice, hushed yet familiar broke her reverie. Startled, she looked up at her savior. He was already bending down and offering her his hand. With a sob, Claire took his hand in her own, and he helped her stand on shaky legs.

She fell into Leon's arms, hugging her best friend close as tears traced their way hotly down her cheeks. He held her tightly, but she could sense an urgency about him as he took her shoulders in his hands and took a step back.

"We need to leave," He said plainly, looking pointedly down at Wesker's form. Claire was about to protest, but then Leon took her by the elbow and led her down her gravel drive.

"Why can't we just kill him?" Claire asked, stowing away a curse as the rocks dug into her bare feet. There was something off about Leon; he kept looking off into the darkness as if they were being watched, almost like he was afraid that someone or something would jump out at them.

"He'll only regenerate, Claire. There's not much time," Leon opened the passenger door of the black Ford Mustang, and helped her into the vehicle. Claire barely had time to pull her feet inside before Leon was slamming her inside, and once again, Claire felt as if Leon was being paranoid. But she trusted him; Leon wouldn't ever lead her astray.

Climbing into the driver's seat, Leon soon had the Mustang on the road. After a few miles, Claire couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Remind me why we didn't just kill him?" She asked, still not understanding any of what had happened in the past few hours, let alone the past five minutes.

"He'll just regenerate. That thing that's parading around claiming to be Albert Wesker isn't," Leon said, looking at her confused face. He sighed, and continued. "It's only a part of Wesker. When your brother and Sheva killed him, a few...chunks...flew. The Uroboros in his system, combined with the Progenitor virus produced several copies of the original. The team assigned to the clean-up of the Kijuju incident found, among other things, torsos, legs; it was like every piece of him that survived had started to grow. Some of them were disgusting. The last thing anyone wants to see is eyeballs staring out at you from a kneecap.

"Genetic chaos...only two of the specimens collected were partially viable. And the one you've just met escaped shortly after it was detained," Leon finished. Claire could hardly believe what he'd just said...but she supposed that when dealing with maniacs and scientists, this sort of thing should be considered almost commonplace.

"Why didn't anyone warn us? I mean, maybe we could have been more prepared! Do you have any idea what that...that..._thing _tried to do to me?" Claire felt anger rising up. When Leon didn't give her an answer right away, she let a tired sigh out. "Thanks, by the way. You just saved me from getting raped."

"You're very lucky that he didn't. Whether or not that thing realizes it or not, it's trying to breed. The one in the lab...when it was alive, caught and raped one of the staff members. She had an eight hour gestation period, and the mass of black tentacles she birthed killed her when it burst out of her chest. By the time someone found her, the Uroboros had devoured more than half of her body," Leon said, and Claire shivered.

"Do you have a cell phone on you? I should call my brother," Claire asked, now worried about her brother. She also needed to call Sheva; although she feared the worst. Leon dug in his breast pocket, and pulled out a Blackberry.

"It's speed dial six," Leon directed, and Claire wondered to herself which number she made it to on his speed dial... Shaking her head, Claire dialed six, and pressed the send button.

"Hello?" Chris said, sounding out of breath.

"It's Claire, Chris. Where are you?" Claire asked, relieved to hear her brother's voice.

"Claire! Are you alright?" Chris sounded relieved, too, and Claire could've laughed at him.

"I'm fine, thanks to Leon," Claire started, but her brother cut her off.

"He killed Sheva, Claire," Chris' voice broke on her name, and she felt her heart go out to her older brother. Tears began to form in her eyes, and she wiped at them harshly. Now wasn't the time for it.

"Chris, where are you? Leon and I are driving, we're picking you up," Claire said, her voice giving no quarter.

"Down at the docks. I'm with Jill," Chris said, and Claire was taken aback. Jill? And then suddenly, the Wesker-thing's words came back to her... A fool's errand.

"We're on our way," Claire promised, before hanging up.

Ada watched Chris lead Jill out of the warehouse, and smirked to herself. The BSAA agent had done, in one night, what Wesker hadn't been able to do in two years. She had to admire his skills...and the way his muscles gleamed in the meager lighting.

Chris was hot. Ada licked her lips as she imagined the man with less clothing on, doing wicked things to her...but now was not the time or place for such thoughts. Beautiful men with a hero complex had always been her vice. Ever since Leon...

Shaking her head as _his_ name invaded her thoughts, Ada frowned. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, and dialed the only contact listed. Nine rings later, she hung up the phone. It wasn't like Wesker to not answer. Then again, his new-found libido might be the reason. Ada knew what he'd done with Sheva. The thought made her sick to her stomach, but it wasn't any of her business. With Chris' sister, she didn't expect it to go any other direction.

Not ever having been jealous, Ada still felt a sting everytime Wesker took another woman to his bed. They were business partners, who enjoyed each other's company from time to time. She had no claim on him. He was her boss. So what if they fucked every now and then? He didn't own her either...Ada had made that fact very clear to him.

Still, the jealousy was there, prickling and nagging her senses. Which is why she didn't feel so bad about having these thoughts about Wesker's nemesis.

Ada's attention was drawn back to the pair below her. She was sitting on the roof of the warehouse, keeping close, but not too close; just as ordered. The ear piece she was wearing gave her a feed of everything Chris was saying, due to the bug she herself had planted in the fabric of his shoulder holster three days ago...That was a night worth remembering. She had slipped into his apartment while he'd been sleeping. She'd been watching him for almost a month now; Ada always liked to be well-informed, but that night had been special. She had stood over him as he slept, admiring the way his bare chest moved as he breathed, the play of his muscles just from that simple act awe-inspiring.

If she hadn't needed to be unseen, she would have climbed on him and rode him till the sun rose...but alas, orders are orders. It was too bad that Wesker wanted to kill Chris. He looked like a man who would have her screaming for more.

"He killed Sheva, Claire," Chris said, his voice breaking in her ear. That name sharpened her attention. Claire shouldn't be on the phone with her brother. What was going on? Ada had a bad feeling starting in her gut. "Down at the docks. I'm with Jill," He continued, and then after a brief pause she saw him put his cell back in his pocket.

Ada pulled out her cell phone again, and tried Wesker's number. She waited for twelve rings this time, before hanging up in exasperation. Something had gone wrong. Claire was lose, Wesker was AWOL, and now Ada wasn't sure what to do next. She decided to continue tailing after her target. It seemed the safest thing to do at the moment.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The dark house was quiet, no lights, no sign of life, just the blood slowly pooling and drying in the carpet. Something quivered inside of the body that had been tacked to the wall, and a sick, ripping sound began to overtake the space that no one was witness to. With a wet plopping noise, a mass of black, slimy tentacles dropped from the corpse of the late Sheva Alomar, and it began to make a horrific shrieking noise as it's formless body began to almost boil, and the shapeless began to change into something more recognizable.

Hair, long and brown, teeth, skin, bone, tendons, arteries, capillaries... all began to fight and shift; surfacing before reshaping to create something familiar, more humanoid, feminine and dainty. The thing opened it's eyes, and shakily sat up, sniffing the air around it for any sign of danger. It scurried clumsily, slender hands and feet scampering over the blood-soaked carpet, before the thing found it's feet, a position that didn't seem to cause this form discomfort. Shaky limbs fought to move forward, and after a few tries the thing was moving with more grace, more purpose.

The thing's stomach growled loudly. Looking back at the shell that had birthed it, it contemplated finishing the remains, but something else in it's brain nearly screamed that this would be wrong...Shaking it's head, the thing clumsily picked it's way through the debris and glass shards that littered it's birthing chamber.

'Kitchen,' the voice in it's head whispered; the thing was confused, and stopped to listen, cocking it's head to the right like a dog. 'Kitchen...food,' the voice stated again, and the thing nodded in agreement. Following instinct, the thing began to descend the staircase, letting the other consciousness lead the way. It's footsteps were light and plodding as it entered a dimly lit room, it's brain muttering, 'Kitchen...food...kitchen...food,' over and over again.

"Where's food?" The thing voiced aloud, and in answer, the other voice, the more coherant, rational part of it's brain, whispered back, 'Refrigerator'. The foreign word brought the thing confusion, and then the image popped into it's brain to match the strange box with two doors on it that resided in this strange, sterile-looking room. Rushing forward, the thing wretched the door to the odd box open, and it was met with a gust of cold. But just like the voice in it's head had promised, there was food.

Saliva began to gather in the thing's mouth just at the sight of such a feast...and it reached slender fingers out to grasp the container of meat; it ignored the other voice in it's head screaming as it tore open the flimsy wrapping and took a fistful of the mushy, cold flesh and crammed it into it's mouth. It barely had time to swallow, before the thing began to shove more into it's mouth, groaning in pleasure. As the meat disappeared, a pang of discomfort grew in the things stomach, and before it could think of what the pain meant, the meat that it had just consumed spewed forth from it's mouth, warm and acidic, nearly liquid.

'Meat is supposed to be cooked,' the voice chided, and the thing gave out a shrill keening noise from it's nose as another wave of nausea overtook it, it's mouth spraying out more of it's meal. As the thing drew in deep breaths, it began to rummage once again into the cold box, letting the other voice decide this time. That other voice seemed to know what was good to eat, and as of yet hadn't been anything but helpful.

Once fully sated, the thing quieted for a while, and the other, coherant conciousness broke through. She climbed the stairs once again, and as she entered the bedroom, her eyes fell on what was once her body, but quickly darted away. She dressed, and all but fled from the grizzly sight behind her.

The backyard had a shed, and out of it she found a gas can and a pack of matches. Entering the house again, she started upstairs, and drenched the carpet outside her room with the foul-smelling liquid, splashing it against the walls, soaking the carpet, down the stairs again; when the can was empty she tossed it aside. Fumbling, her fingers trembling, she struck a match, and tossed it onto the gas-soaked carpet. It caught with a muffled "whoomph!", and she grabbed the keys from the stand beside the door and walked to her purple Mustang, not bothering to look back.

Sheva had only one thing on her mind. Track down Albert Wesker, and kill him.


End file.
